Go Ahead, I'm Dreaming Now
by Dranzen
Summary: Ron takes up half the van, Dumbledore chops up his beard and two Cedrics and a hellhound fight for Harry's affections. Pure and Utter AU crack. SLASH AND STUPIDITY.
1. Chapter 1

_Summary: _Ron takes up half the van, Dumbledore chops up his beard, and two Cedrics and a Hellhound fight for Harry's affections. Pure and utter AU crack.

_A/N: Go Ahead, I'm Dreaming Now turned out a lot more like a parody than I intended. This story is not only a way for me to fuel my insanity, but also so that a nightmare that has kept me awake more than once isn't so scary. The chapters are not long, yet, but the updates should be quick. _

Warnings: Crack, Slash, Language. The usual. Possible blood and guts. Donuts.

* * *

This story begins – or, rather, the part where we all clue in at – with Harry stuck between a rock and a hard place. Actually, our most beloved and wonderful Harry Potter was stuck between a dead man, a boy who couldn't _possibly_ be real, and an insane dog-like monster that wanted to eat his ankles. Or something. Even though, really, none of this should be possible in a sane world.

But whoever said that it was possible for Harry-frickin'-Potter to exist in a sane world? It's quite possible that his mere _existence_ has a tendency to throw everything good and holy out of whack, and thus the means of fixing said everything good and holy that are out of whack fall onto his shoulders.

But, back to Harry being stuck between a rock and a hard place.

It is easy to assume that the whole disaster started when Dumbledore turned to Harry, Ron, Hermione and Minerva and said "Hey guys! You know what would be a fun vacation? SAVING THE WORLD IN A MINI-VAN THAT EATS GAS." Yes, had he been an internet loser like the author he probably would have put many, many smiles.

Harry, Ron and Hermione would've had a lot of exclamation points.

Not that they got much choice. They were fated to have to go and get rid of the wannabe Lord Voldemort's whores…horcruxes, horcruces? It didn't matter. They had to get rid of them. And, as mentioned before, the saving of the world is always left to Harry. Not that he really minds, being the natural Hero we all know him as.

Ah, but I digress. Really, it goes back farther than the moment when they all piled into the worn van Albus had convinced Ron's parents to let them use -- nobody was quite sure how he accomplished this feat exactly, but no-one bothered to ask.

It began, as Harry will realize, with a handsome boy – as it always does. Actually, there were _two_ handsome boys overall. One, Harry liked quite a bit; the other…well, no-one liked him, and no-one did even now when he was an older, uglier man…

Tom Riddle had been intelligent and talented and good-looking and everything that everyone wanted. He had held his head up as high as it could be without hurting his neck, and was convinced that he was, overall, superior to the entirety of humanity. Tom had been an intellectually proficient student and disgustingly polite to the point where all of his teachers seem to gush over him – willingly – including, though he was ashamed to admit it, Albus Dumbledore.

Tom was one of those who were 'gifted' – gifted with the sight that allowed him to see the magic as he flowed around them and gifted with the weaving of said magic to create and, mostly in dear Tom's case, destroy. Like all the things he did in his life, Tom Riddle was beyond excellent with his control of the magical realm that surrounded them and pretty much dictated society's common day. He became consumed with this particular ability and, like all power-hungry assholes, went insane.

And for every villain, there are about three heroes per milli-thought of evil (Hermione worked it out once, much to Ron and Harry's disgust) and, predictably, Tom Riddle – now Lord Voldemort – had many, many milli-thoughts of evil. You'd figure that good would ultimately outnumber evil, no matter how many other evil people were having milli-thoughts of aforementioned evil while following said evil lord.

Unfortunately, as in the above paragraph, there was far too much evil and many heroes died.

Sobering for a moment, let me tell you that Harry's parents were two of these heroes, as was his Godfather (aw gee, well that's three heroes gone. You'd think they'd take the milli-thought of evil with them.) which, of course, makes Harry a very tragic hero. As I'm sure the reader is very well aware, tragic heroes are the most brilliant and powerful heroes.

Voldemort, unfortunately, had too much evil in him to contemplate the construction of a brilliant and powerful hero. He, of course, caused great Tragedy with a capital 't' in Harry's life, and all mathematical, fantastical equations aside, screwed himself over.

But that is a story for a later chapter.

The other good-looking boy is, surprisingly, far more important in this particular tale than any insane super-villain or worn-out van or brilliant and powerful hero. This other good-looking boy is, no surprise gasps, please, a hero in his own right.

Cedric Diggory was dead before Harry had even begun to use his overall tragic-ness to fight against Lord Voldemort, which, sadly, made him a tragic hero himself. Except, aha, he was dead and could apparently do _nothing_ to help Harry Save the World. So, poor, sweet, charming, incredibly hot Cedric Diggory was left to float about in the after-life (which, actually, makes no sense since he was dead) of his particular religion, moody and guilty and quite vexing to his other deceased relatives (most of whom were quite old, since the Diggorys were a very lucky family and usually lived to ripe old ages).

Needless to say, Cedric didn't very much like death, but he wasn't about to fight against the powers-that-be and try to escape his particular doom. No, fate was fate, and if he was meant to be dead, so be it. It was nice to see his great-Aunt Who-Cares again, anyways, even if she was far too doting and convinced that Cedric – dead, remember – was three-years-old, still.

Dear, dear readers, you knew all of this already to a certain degree. Cedric got into a very big, unlucky mess and winded up dead much to Harry's displeasure and pain – which added to his THP (Tragic Hero Power) and proved that Tom Riddle/Lord Voldemort was losing his touch with the thwarting of any and all heroes. The details of this mess are Cedric's to tell, and Harry's to forget.

One thing this author will tell you, since she is an amazing gossip, is why this other good-looking boy is very, very important.

It is a tale all good HC shippers know quite well. Unfortunately, there is no prefect's bathroom in this story, but, it is _tragic destiny_ and no amount of canon is going to deter insanity and doomed love.

The details of this secret romance was 'kept under the sheets' in more than one way, and following the fourteenth summer of Harry's life and into the late June catastrophe that brought about the death of our dearest Cedric, Cedric and Harry found themselves entangled in a mess of emotions and teenage hormones and downright alternative universe Destiny.

That's why, when the entire let's-save-the-world crew realized Harry's incredible ability with the same magic that stole away what should have been a long and fulfilling life for Cedric, Harry saved him.

If you could call it saving.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I don't own _Harry Potter_. Liana Campbell IS my character.

_A/N: I did post this last night, but it was about two pages shorter and had a really, really abrupt ending. Unfortunately, this chapter isn't as funny as the previous chapter, mostly because I'm not in a sarcastic, unhappy mood. In the middle things get awkward, mostly because I was _supposed_ to be studying Math. -.- There's some minor plot-ness. Don't be frightened. D: _

* * *

Outside, it was a warm, disgustingly cheerful summer day as the days chugged their way through July. The mountain scenery was majestic and beautiful and breath-taking and bla, bla, bla, and the winding road that a worn-looking, red van was putting along was clear of any weary travellers. 

Inside the van, sprawled across the entirety of the farthest back seat was Ron Weasley, who appeared quite uncomfortable with, once again, being stuck in his parent's precious vehicle. His stark red hair was mussed, his blue eyes trained on the tan ceiling, and his long legs were stretched out over the equally tan seat as he struggled to listen to what was said farther up the van.

In the next seat sat Harry Potter, radiating his THP and conversing seriously with Hermione Granger, who seemed content to listen and nod at random points. Illegible and unimportant papers were spread out between them, as well a bright blue hat and a blonde wig.

Driving and, once in a while, bringing his hand up to rub his shaved chin, was Albus Dumbledore. He didn't look quite so old without his beard, and he wasn't that bad of a driver. He concentrated, and ignored every attempt Ron and Harry had made to distract him out of boredom. In the passenger seat, strict-looking Minerva McGonagall sat with her long, dark hair falling about her shoulders. There were streaks of grey in it that stood out to the three teens but the strict woman looked far younger than they had ever thought her as.

This change had, sadly, been necessary, just like Hermione's wig and Harry's coloured contacts. The harder they were to recognise, the better.

Talk trailed to a sudden stop and Ron blinked sleepily. He forced himself to sit up, resolving not to fall asleep until they at least reached the next rest stop or Harry and Hermione took a break from working – whichever came first.

A sigh came from Harry as he leaned back, his hands lying loosely on either side of him. Hermione was shuffling papers, a frustrated frown on her face, and Ron suddenly wished he had been paying better attention.

"So…what do we do?" Harry asked, taking off his glasses to rub his eyes. He only wore his brown contact lenses when he had to, since they itched. Ron couldn't imagine your _eyes_ itching, and made a pact with himself never to wear contacts of any type – or to stick anything in his eyes, for that matter.

"We wait for Cedric." McGonagall's voice, unlike her appearance, had lost none of its stiffness. These were still her students, no matter what they had to accomplish together or how old the three became.

Ron snorted, suddenly understanding the course of the conversation. Three heads turned towards him, and even Dumbledore twitched slightly.

"Wait for Cedric, huh," he grumbled, leaning his back against the side of the van. He turned his eyes to Harry, ignoring the scowl Hermione sent his way. The brunet's face was suspiciously blank, as though he didn't want to take sides. That didn't matter; Ron knew _exactly _where Harry stood.

He bit the inside of his cheek, looking towards McGonagall. "How do we know we can trust him?"

"Well, you know, other than the fact that he's spent the last _three years dead_…" Hermione hissed. Harry slouched in his seat.

"Exactly!" Ron retorted, glaring at her. "Not that I doubt Harry's abilities or anything, but you know…I've heard from pretty much everyone in the world that resurrecting the dead is, oh, _impossible_?" He mimicked her anger and Hermione's lips pursed.

"We will trust him," rumbled Dumbledore's voice for the first time in several hours. The trio all turned their heads/eyes to look at him, Harry seeming slightly shocked and Hermione triumphant. "Because he has no choice."

Yes, Hermione was most certainly feeling triumphant, or she was very good at feigning 'Smug' with a capital 'S'. Ron scowled at life. No matter what anyone thought, there was something morbid about a dead man walking the Earth. It really didn't mean anything, what Harry or Dumbledore or most particularly Hermione thought about the whole stupid situation, simply because Ron had been raised in a good, Christian household and his exhausted brain kept turning itself back over to 'exorcism'.

Which, really, did not please Harry one teeny bit.

"I want to go on a spy mission," Ron whined, once silence had once again fallen completely over the stuffy van.

"Aha! So _that_ is the source of all your animosity towards Cedric," Hermione announced proudly, grinning in a way that told everyone else they ought to know what she was talking about. Even though, you know, _they didn't_.

"What are you talking about?" Harry mumbled, forcing his glasses back onto the sweaty bridge of his nose. "Ron and Cedric get along like…" He paused, his intended sarcasm trailing into thin air. Well, really, there wasn't a simile that contrasted enough with the two male's, er, feelings towards each other.

"If you're having another creative moment, leave me out of it."

Harry glared at the offending red-head, who simply shrugged his shoulders. Mission accomplished.

"_Jealousy_." Hermione continued with a roll of her eyes. Harry's lack of literary skill never ceased to amaze anyone, except Hermione. Really, you couldn't blame her. After all, oh-so-eloquent Harry-frickin'-Potter was able to bring about all sorts of impossible miracles with that…quirky…poetic speech of his.

Ron looked more disturbed than confused. "What are you on about?" He snapped. "Harry can keep his magical whatever to himself."

"I agree." Chimed in Harry, and the teens shared a brief nod.

The brunette rolled her eyes – again – and replied, "Not of that, of _Cedric_."

Both her friends blinked, shocked and/or confused. Ron seemed to be carefully – if somewhat stiffly – contemplating her theory, while Harry appeared to be too tired for any of this nonsense (after all, hunting down whore—horcruxes was a tiring task).

"…the part where he's dead, the part where he gets to run around and spy on people, or the part where he's sleeping with my best friend?" Ron asked, listing each of Cedric's more apparent 'virtues' with a careful slowness. When his words had sunk in, Hermione burst into a fit of giggles and Harry melted into an embarrassed pile of goop. Ron looked sufficiently pleased with the slight havoc he had wreaked with both his friend's minds (and his teacher's, if McGonagall's scandalized look over her seat meant anything) so he adjusted his posture slightly, settling in for an almost-enjoyable ride.

* * *

Cedric was sweating, both from the heat and from the nervous tension that had settled itself so resolutely in his shoulders. No matter how hard he tried to shake loose his fright (and apparent stalker) and return to his normal, relatively cheery, un-dead self, the shadow right behind him was persistent and a nagging presence that had quite the negative impact on Cedric's already waning sanity. 

His eyes narrowed as he heard the eerie, high-pitched giggle from behind him. He quickened his step, ignoring the glances shot his way from passing, unwelcome observers. Cedric was faster, smarter – hell, he had been through his own birth-death-and re-birth cycle, however impossible it was. Surely he could lose one _little_ follower.

A welcoming bell tinkled overhead as Cedric dashed into the dimly-lit shop. He scrunched his nose in distaste as the thick smog of multiple, mismatched incense burners assaulted his senses; the different smells hung like a fog around the ceiling of the cramped shop, and it was dulling his overall sharpness.

Holding his breath, Cedric stepped farther into the shop, ignoring the welcome that came from a small figure off to his right. His eyes began to water as he forced his broad form through two close-packed shelves that attempted to form an aisle. Here, fake quills and calligraphy tools lined the entirety of one dusty shelf; the other held row upon row of various, fairly cheap dishes – the type his Mother had liked to buy, just because she was a bit of a klutz.

He allowed himself one small breath of relief when there were no tiny steps behind him. So, he had finally –

"Ah, Cedric," whined a high, childish voice. "You shouldn't walk that fast, it's rude. I can't keep up."

Cedric spun around so quickly and carelessly a precariously stacked row of rice bowls (each with a design plainer than the one before it) fell from the shelves and onto his shoulder and the ground. Just about all of them broke, and except for one, dusty-white coloured one. He flinched with each crack, and at the accompanying shriek from the store's keeper.

"Silly Cedric," said the voice again, and Cedric allowed himself to open on eye not to survey the damage, but its unintentional cause. Bright blue eyes blinked back at him, and he groaned.

"What are you _doing_?" he moaned, mere inches away from whining like the child before him. The little girl continued to smile back up at him, but offered no definite answer.

Liana Campbell was…well, she was a cute little (very little) girl. Cedric guessed she couldn't be older than four or five to his (including the years he spent _dead_) twenty, almost twenty-one. Her hair was fairly long, which was to be expected in a girl of her size and age, and was a shade or two darker than Cedric's own bronze locks. Her eyes, of course, were a bright blue, inquiring and far too mischievous for a tiny girl.

"Well, go home," Cedric reached forward to grasp her shoulder, turning her around as gently as his stress would allow. Really, this wasn't good at all…he wasn't supposed to be drawing attention to himself – or three foot admirers, for that matter.

Which, really, was what Liana Campbell was. She had 'discovered' Cedric, per say, two days before when he had been passing through the large harbour city. Liana had gotten herself into a spot of trouble with a couple of sour-looking men (she had, Cedric would learn, a rather impudent and large mouth) and Cedric had stepped in, proclaiming himself as her older brother.

That was believable enough, if you put aside the fact that their only similarities in appearance were the almost-shades of their hair. Where Cedric was impossibly tall, Liana would forever be too short for her age; where Cedric's eyes were a calm grey (that Harry had, on more than one occasion before his death and after his resurrection, admired quite embarrassingly), Liana's were a bright, penetrating cerulean; and where Cedric was tanned from outdoor activity and natural tones, Liana was nearly translucent. Still, Cedric had managed to whisk the talkative creature away before one of them wound up dead (ahem, again).

Liana had been attached ever since.

Cedric had told her way too many times to just _go home_ and that her parents had to be worried, but every time she had gotten fidgety and awkward. He was a pathetic human being in the sense that he was compassionate and trusting almost to a fault, so his buzzing, ever contemplating mind had suggested that he just let her hang around for a bit until she realized it was dumb to run away from home.

But it wasn't just running away from home, which kind of made Liana a Tragic Hero in her own right. Which is good, because there really aren't enough female heroes out there. Unfortunately, Liana was the type who could easily become a Tragic Villain given the chance, but Cedric couldn't see/tell this…yet.

Cedric sighed and squared his shoulders as the click clack of ridiculously high heels approached him and Liana. He raised his eyes from the tiny girl and attempted to look as apologetic as he felt, underneath his frustration. Liana was giggling as she bent down, beginning to gingerly gather pieces of porcelain in the palm of one hand. The shopkeeper – a tiny, wrinkled old lady with too much hair and badly applied make-up – descended upon them in all her foreign fury before Cedric even had a chance to worry about the safety of Liana's short fingers.

As he tried desperately not to cower, Cedric wondered if sometimes he was better of dead.

* * *

When he was nine, Harry Potter ran away. 

He Wasn't stupid; he knew it was dangerous and quite possibly one of his most retarded decisions in a nine-year history of retarded decisions – but that did not stop him. Escape had been a tantalizing option that had long hung in front of him, waving its metaphorical fingers teasingly.

Harry had lunged for said metaphors, and then he was gone like a shot. He had leapt down the three tiny steps that Dudley had pushed him off one too many times; he had stumbled down the concrete pathway and then the driveway with all the grace that a tiny nine-year-old boy could manage; and he had sprinted down past number two, Privet Drive, and around the corner as fast as his short legs would carry him.

Freedom had filled his entire being, and Harry had smiled as the pavement fell away behind him.

* * *

The author is of the opinion that magic is a picky, difficult-to-manage, spiteful creature, stuffed into the same imaginary folder as younger brothers and math exams – especially this story's presented magical abilities and consequences. 

Know this, dear reader: it is necessary, in this particular universe, to be insane on some level for any one man or woman to wield the fragile thing. Magic is unique to each person's personality.

It's not a Science or an Equation, because it is never, ever definite. It evolves and adapts; corrupts and revives; saves and damns. Truly, it directs life as anyone knows it, and few ever receive the chance to struggle out of its grasp – out of the thing _normal_ human beings call Fate.

Harry and Voldemort are two of these freaks of nature, and, although in a completely different way, so is Cedric. It is easy – so, so easy – for either Harry or the resident Dark Lord to focus just a little bit more and see the threads of magic as they weave around and inside the things surrounding them, but Magic is, as said before, fickle and those it most sadly loses control of view it in so many unique ways.

For Voldemort, at the tender age of seven he began to notices particles of gold _things_ that were oddly reminiscent of snowflakes. They fell like a heavy rain on some people and objects, while others were only occasionally dusted with the odd things. He had pointed them out, once, to one of his fellow orphans, but they had laughed openly at him. It was a definite, "What the fuck?" moment, and probably the reason Voldemort is a sociopath.

Or it couldn't, but that's beside the point.

For Harry, the summer during which he turned nine he began to see threads tied around peoples wrists and that floated through the air like scarves on a heavy wind. These pieces of thread varied in colour and thickness and length, and Harry began to notice that all of things seemed to change, depending on the person. For two years, Harry watched as Ron's lengthened and changed from pure white to a baby blue that didn't seem to really suit him.

It didn't take long for either of them to notice that they could move, change and use the things that existed around them, invisible to everyone else. It took even less time for them to realize what exactly they could create with their golden snow and threads.

One thing that will always stay with Harry is the sight of Cedric's own thread of magic flickering from its dark green to a violent _vert_ that stung the back of his eyelids, before fading completely into nothing. Even the sight of many colourful threads winding themselves around Cedric's still body three years later couldn't banish the first sight of absolute _death_.

It was then Harry realized that Voldemort was one man who treasured that blankness.


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: This is the shortest chapter yet, and the least funny. The rating _may_ go up, depending on how I feel about Harry's beast. This is where the plot starts going places, slowly._

**Chapter Three**

Being dead hadn't diminished the beauty of Cedric Diggory, of this Harry was absolutely sure. He was just as handsome as he had been, those three years ago that were small in number and far in distance, and this both shocked and bothered those around our resident tragic hero – surely, Cedric ought to have a hole eaten away by who-knows-what in the side of his cheek? Or maggots, crawling beneath his eyelids like a twitch that just_ won't go the hell away_? When he speaks, his jaw should be making dreadful popping sounds and his teeth fall out at odd times, right?

Well, er, no, actually, Harry would tell them, awkward as you please. It'd be mighty uncomfortable for Cedric, actually.

And that, according to Dumbledore, was explanation enough for everyone -- even though the rest of almost-sane humanity hadn't a clue _how._

Harry was left with the difficult task of figuring out how to make Cedric's heart start beating again. But that was okay, too, because Cedric was patient to a fault…and if either of them wanted to get romantic about it, they just had to think they were the heroes of a vampire romance (angry smut, not included).

It was frustrating and strange, and although he could somehow raise the fucking dead…he couldn't make them live again. Whenever Harry brooded on this, Hermione tended to wave a finger at him and smirk in that 'I knew it' way of hers. According to the bushy-haired young woman, Cedric was dead and that was all there was to it. Technically, Harry couldn't revive him.

This usually made Harry feel quite guilty, and although Cedric had made it quite clear that he was happy to be up and walking about, Harry felt that he was just better off dead.

Magic had its limits.

* * *

For Cedric, time hadn't really passed. When you're dead, you're dead – time doesn't mean anything, other than a measurement of the space between your departure and your reunion with someone you miss. In death, Cedric hadn't been around long enough to get to know his great-grandfather or his insane Aunt – again or at all.

From the moment he first opened his eyes in his new life, Cedric knew everything had changed and far too much time had passed – after all, the difference between fourteen and seventeen was a gap he had mused on before.

Harry was older, and he was going to keep going, and just like always Cedric had to catch up.

* * *

It hissed, then sniffed the air experimentally. A tremble shook its wasted body and the hound lowered its snout to gaze ahead with milky eyes. Fear hung heavy in the air, fuelling its intense, constant hunger. It stumbled forward.

There was meat nearby, and the longer it pursued its prey the better it would taste. It was learning, and times were changing. Its toes spread and curved, black talons dug into the moist soil of the forest. Far off, a bird cawed, but it ignored the sound.

Dirty ears twitched.

* * *

They called themselves Death Eaters, even though everyone knew that no-one could fight death – except, as Raymond had found out, Harry Potter. Apparently, not only did the righteous teenager stupidly fight against Voldemort, he also raised the dead. It was disturbing and dangerous, and now Raymond and Jesse saw further reason to dispose of the disruptive boy as soon as possible: he was a freak of nature, a dark creature.

And Potter knew that they knew and had sent his demon after them.

It was a rare clearing, its novelty enriched by its location in the midst of heavy deciduous forest. A dead, thick trunk of a tree lay sideways across it, its center chewed away by other vegetation and vermin. It looked almost like a bleached bone, picked clean of its life by some starving scavenger.

Jesse gulped and pulled his dark coat tighter around him. It was cool, this deep into the trees. Just enough sunlight scattered itself about to light the way. Raymond was muttering to himself next to his colleague, looking at a dirty map with a frustrated frown on his face.

"We need to get going," he whispered, folding his arms across his chest. Raymond's grey eyes flickered towards him, blank and frightening as always. Jesse shivered again, unconsciously drawing away from his temporary partner.

"We have time." The other responded. His voice was flat and uncaring, but he kept his tone just as low as Jesse had.

"It's still following us."

"We lost it."

"You don't know that."

Jesse ran a hand through his hair, looking around them. The trees looked threatening, even during the day thanks to the past day's events. Truthfully, he was glad they had stopped. Always running had tired him out, and he wasn't sure if he actually could keep going.

Raymond didn't respond, he just turned back to the worn map with deeper creases on his brow.

A demon scratched at a tree.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

Harry felt uneasy with a sword that was for sure. Anyone could tell by the way he skirted around the silvery blade and avoided holding it unless absolutely necessary. He knew he was supposed to be brave and powerful, and he could deal with that…it was just the idea of having to carry on something as dangerous as the sword of _fucking Gryffindor_ that blew his mind.

Nobody could really understand what was going through his head whenever he held the blade, nobody could feel the wild power that shot through his hand or the extreme cold that spread up his arm and shoulder. They couldn't, because they couldn't see magic.

* * *

The lake was an inky, ominous colour that made it look more menacing than even Ron had first believed – this, at least, explained why Cedric had been so pale when explaining his find to them. Naturally, they had to go to the source of all the trouble and fright, and everyone was okay with that. Until they actually got there.

It wasn't the fact that a piece of Voldemort's wretched soul was most likely rusting away on the sandy bottom or the way Cedric flinched just _looking_ at it that threw everyone off. No, the duty ultimately fell to Harry because of the way the only weapon they had simply rejected everyone else, the way he barely got a shiver from the dark water and that he was Harry Potter and Lord Voldemort's one and only rival.

Harry didn't want to drag Cedric back out there, back out on the water in a rickety looking half-a-boat, but Cedric was the only one who knew where it was. While everyone else kept watch (Dumbledore could _swear_ he'd seen someone following) Harry and Cedric trudged their way to the rocky shore of the (apparently) fresh water lake.

It hadn't taken much to get the stupid vehicle going, or maybe Cedric was just good with his hands. Harry wasn't sure, nor had he paid much attention either. He had been preoccupied with the gleam of mid-afternoon sunlight on the thin blade of Gryffindor's sword, the way it sent vibrations through his fingertips even though he had dumped it behind Cedric and scurried away to the other end of the boat.

He had been presented with a rare chance to just _be_ with Cedric, to talk to him without Ron scowling and hovering over his shoulder; to look at him without Hermione hiding a wannabe-knowing smile behind her hand; to touch him without Minerva looking too scandalized.

Yet, he wasted it, because he was frightened.

This was frustrating, and Harry spent who-knew-how-long listening to the slight whirr of the engine and the splash of the water against the sides and watching the water get darker and darker the farther they went. It was called the Black Lake for a reason, he thought, squinting to see what was hiding in the depths. It sputtered to a stop, and Harry heard Cedric sigh before the water began to settle.

The surface was so still it almost looked solid. Harry felt tempted to step onto the blackness, but common sense held him back and curiosity urged him forwards until Harry was squeezing the edge of the boat and pursing his lips. A wind brushed his hair, and still the silence and lake remained undisturbed.

Cedric turned and Harry let his right hand slip forwards, fingers stretching towards the water. Electricity sparked in Harry's fingers and his eyes widened, and then the stillness was broken as Cedric jerked forward and pulled him away from the lake. The boat rocked slightly, and Harry's glasses slid down his nose and the pair gaped at each other.

He had to have felt it too, he still had to feel it. It stung at his arm where Cedric was holding him so much it hurt, but Harry still couldn't bring himself to move.

"Don't touch the water." Cedric said, his voice sounding loud as it penetrated the silence around them. Everything seemed to break then, and Harry thought he could hear Ron yelling something.

The sting faded and Cedric let go. Harry was suddenly cold in his t-shirt.

Realization hit Harry from all sides, and he suddenly felt quite foolish, embarrassed. He turned and stretched his fingers, once again aware of everything around them. He saw a flash of white in the water, far off, and he recognized the brightness.

"Are there fish in there?" he asked, tone shocked. The lake looked fucking _poisonous_, how could anything live in there? He turned his head slightly to look up at Cedric, mirroring the confused frown on his face.

"Fish?" Cedric echoed, leaning over the side and peering down. Harry looked as well, but all he could see now were his and Cedric's reflections. It was clear, too clear, but at least there were ripples across the surface of their faces. "I don't see anything." Cedric pulled away, breathing deeply. Harry studied the water for a moment more and then peered up at Cedric, studying the tension in his features. Slowly, his eyes slid to the scarlet band on Cedric's right wrist. There was no thread extending from it, but this time Harry didn't flinch.

"I thought I saw a thread," he said, straightening. He rolled his shoulders, enjoying the way the eerie tension floated away. "Maybe it was just a reflection…" Neither of them said anything about the water just _absorbing_ the sunlight, rather than reflecting it.

Cedric shifted closer, slightly, but Harry wasn't surprised. Everyone had been doing it since they first arrived. Ron and Hermione had stood on either side of him, close enough that the three of them were brushing elbows. He didn't ask them, but he did survey Cedric seriously.

A relieved sigh left him, and Harry smiled.

"So, how do we get it?"


End file.
